When girls gotta do what girls gotta do
Every weekend there is a squad of beautiful young things who crave the club culture, only to be restrained by their empty savings accounts.
Deep in their bra pockets, safely nestled against their perky boobs, is a few coins folded in a rouge bank note. They have enough to get them to the city. They are set.
As they settle into their dark den of choice, under smoky lights, attracting a night riding philanthropist whose over-flowing alcohol tap is well renowned in dance circles.
"Niphuzani?" (What's your poison?) That icebreaker. A favourite for young hunters whose prowl has set them upon new acquaintances.
The question, for thirsty young ladies, is as tricky as solving for x in higher grade algebra.
Sober lasses entrapped in the company of a deep-pocketed wolf may find this particular inquiry rather limiting. They are suddenly cornered into a position of choosing a single type of drink.
Firstly, there is that lingering uncertainty as to how much, and how long the buyer is willing to spend on them. If they order their usual - not knowing how the buyer's bank balance is set - they may just miss out on those nectar glazed bubbles they only ever see on the 'gram.
Secondly, they are thirsty!
Yes, that is what the financially strained usually lean on. But this girl might have pre-empted her friend's appetite incorrectly. She nonetheless calls out loud for her regular cider. That comes in a pack of six, and she might just score 24.
The girl with the extra strong molars will call for a beer. She tears that lid off with one grip, well, at least the third bottle. She would have started with demanding a tin opener for the first round, even going as far as pouring it into a glass and remarking on the foam. Now, drinking off a dumpie seems to be bringing out the demons of ivosho in her. She wants a smoke.
The prettiest only drinks champagne of course. Lips locked on the flute, with her legs crossed. She flicks her hair with every sip and lets the bubbles somersault in her palate before swallowing. But there is only 750ml and the night feels like a whole week when the bottles are popping! An hour later, when the throat and the bar is low, a bottle (or 12) of cider does not seem like a bad idea after all.
She grabs one from her friend's supply. There isn't much of a difference between fermented apples and grapes. Right?
One will answer "I don't drink alcohol" and not stutter. She will monitor every girl's hormonal levels and check the time. Every GirlSquad, especially when subjected to generous offers in the club, must have this girl in tow.